


Catharsis

by le_assian



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-17
Updated: 2013-07-31
Packaged: 2017-12-20 11:34:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/886791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/le_assian/pseuds/le_assian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal Lecter, an expert in psychology, works with the F.B.I. to profile criminals -- specifically, psychopaths. Through all of his years working with the law, he believes that he's seen it all (much to his distaste) -- until he's brought on to a new case where the murderer is harder to pin down and completely foreign to Hannibal. In enters Will Graham, the subject of multiple publications and articles that came to Jack Crawford's attention via Alana Bloom. They hope to put Will Graham's unique talents to good use ... but Will isn't one to allow others to have the upper hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dierker the Elder](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Dierker+the+Elder).



> This is a reverse!AU inspired by "theblogofsillywalk"s post (/post/53313977165/hannibal-au-will-graham-is-the-cannibal-and) on tumblr. She's a pal of mine, too, so I thought it'd be fun to write something off her little something~  
> As you might've guessed already, Hannibal Lecter in this universe is the inspector, and Will is the cannibal. Otherwise, I'm going to try and keep everything as close to canon as possible. I think the most interesting thing to focus on here is how the plot would unfold if these two were in opposite spots, so I won't be doing super major plot changes. Hopefully.  
> In any case, I hope you enjoy~

            The house was in pristine condition. The counters were clear and polished, shelves were full with piled with full sets of dishes, rarely used all at the same time but present all the same, the only suit in the house was pressed and hung in the closet, and the remaining clothes were either meticulously folded and stored in the dresser or else sitting patiently in the dryer. The cushions were straightened and the books on the shelf were ordered by genre and author. Even the remote control had a place, arranged parallel to the edge of the side table. Everything had a place and was kept carefully within those confines.

            The bed of the house, however, was a different story. The covers were crumpled and askew, pillows were strewn across the floor and along the headboard, and right on top of it was a disheveled man, his hair tangled and his tanned jacket wrinkled. His jeans looked as if they hadn’t been washed in days, and he was still wearing his shoes. It looked very much like this man had stumbled into his house and promptly thrown himself onto the bed after nights with no sleep.

            In reality, this was not so far from the truth; inspector Hannibal Lecter had not gotten so much as an hour of sleep for the past three days.

            A sharp ring blared from a cell phone on the bedside table, cutting through the silence of the house. With a sudden intake of breath, the inspector jerked awake. For a moment, he seemed disoriented and confused, as if he wasn’t sure how he had ended up where he was. Another few shrill blares from the phone reoriented him, however. Running a hand through his disheveled hair, Inspector Lector picked up the phone and glanced over the caller I.D. before putting it to his ear.

            “Hannibal Lecter,” he said, already swinging his legs around the edge of the bed and going to the bathroom.

            “It’s Crawford,” Jack Crawford greeted Hannibal on the other end of the line. “How fast can you get out to Minnesota?”

            “Minnesota?” Hannibal’s hand paused over his toothbrush.

            “A case the local P.D. can’t figure out got flagged,” explained Jack. “Can you make it?”  
            “It shouldn’t be a problem,” Hannibal said, turning on the faucet and glancing over himself in the mirror. Hair graying, hadn’t shaved in a while, bags under his eyes. More haggard and tired looking by the day, it seemed.

            “Good. See you in a few hours.”

            Hannibal didn’t bother saying goodbye as he hung up. He placed the phone off to the side, out of the way from the sink, and began brushing his teeth and splashing a handful of cold water onto his face to help him wake up. Then he rubbed the last of the sleep from his eyes and went to the drawers to pull out a fresh pair of jeans and a new shirt, at the very least. Hannibal had been working another case over the last few days that he hadn’t had the time to sleep—and had even less time to return home. He hadn’t had a proper meal in days, either (a few of the officers had offered to buy Hannibal fast food, but Hannibal would’ve rather starved for a few more hours). As he stepped out of his bedroom and strode towards the door, he glanced into the kitchen longingly. Sitting there was his knife collection and his fridge, waiting patiently for him. But with a defeated sigh and a glance at his watch, Hannibal could only step in and grab a Ziploc bag to fill with granola and some fruit from the pantry. Two steps later and only three hours of sleep behind him, Inspector Hannibal Lecter left his home for the second time that week.

            The plane ride was short but suffocating. There was a baby crying in the back somewhere, which meant that Hannibal couldn’t catch up on sleep, and the passenger next to him always needed to go to the bathroom, forcing him to get up every few minutes anyway to let her through. Not to mention that, in coach, the ceiling was low and the aisles were narrow. The seats were crushing Hannibal’s knees into his chest and the drinks were always too watered down. And don’t get Hannibal started on the peanuts.

            Thankfully, Hannibal only had to endure the flight for an hour or two. He couldn’t get out of the plane fast enough. Even the synthetic, chemical-smelling air in the airport was better than the interior of the giant, glorified iron bird. Hannibal glanced at his phone again to read off the text Jack had sent him. It listed the location of the crime scene—apparently it was not at a specific address, as Jack had also mentioned, _I’ll send an officer to pick you up and take you here._

Bring _you here_ , Hannibal mentally edited in his head as he hailed a taxi outside of the airport. It wasn’t a busy airport at all, really, so thankfully it was easy for him to get a ride over.

            From the airport, it took perhaps another forty minutes to get to the address Jack had texted Hannibal. On the way, he tried his best not to fall asleep. It was one thing to fall asleep on a plane, but he was apprehensive about dozing off in a car being driven by a stranger. And Hannibal didn’t want to be seen sleeping casually in front of a stranger, either. So for the entirety of the forty minutes, Hannibal was nodding off continuously.

            Hannibal finally arrived at a gas station that was clearly run down and rarely used by anyone, anymore. He wasn’t even sure that the small store was still open and running. It was at the edge of the middle of nowhere; all there was around them were fields. Waiting for Hannibal was a single police car. He paid the taxi driver for the fare before getting out and joining the policeman. He didn’t recognize the officer, so Hannibal assumed it was one of Minnesota’s state police.

            “Hello,” Hannibal greeted the man, who nodded and grunted, “How’re you doing.”

            “Fine, thank you. And you?”

            Evidently, the officer had not expected the conversation to evolve to such an advanced state. He blinked at Hannibal for a moment before saying, “Good. Thanks.” He then started the engine.

            “How long is the drive?” asked Hannibal as he fastened his belt.

            “Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes.”

            The drive after that was silent for the most part. Hannibal occupied himself by staring out the window, although there wasn’t much to see. It was just more and more fields. It was becoming a real challenge for Hannibal to stay awake.

            Perhaps five minutes away from the destination, however, the officer said suddenly, “So you’re the special investigator the F.B.I. hired?”

            Hannibal turned back to the officer and stared for a moment, surprised and more than a little taken aback that he would blatantly ask such a question.

            “Yes,” he said after a moment, “I am.”

            “F.B.I. can’t handle their own cases anymore, huh?” the officer chuckled a little. Hannibal didn’t reply, but he did go back to staring out the window. He was disinterested in speaking with this insensitive policeman.

            Shortly thereafter, Hannibal arrived at his final destination at last. He could see all the police cars and the officials wandering around, creating a ring around the crime scene. Hannibal spotted Jack giving advice to one of the forensic specialists at the scene near the edge of the circle.

            “Jack!” Hannibal called, raising a hand as he got out of the car. Jack raised his head and immediately recognized Hannibal. His “ _finally_ ” expression was clear.

            “Hannibal,” nodded Jack, taking a few strides to meet Hannibal. “Nice of you to finally show up.”

            “Sorry for being late,” Hannibal replied, pausing as Jack approached. “How are things?”

            “We have the body, but so far, forensics’ got nothing.”

            “ _Nothing_?” Hannibal repeated, beginning to walk towards the rest of the team. Jack fell in step beside him.

            “Not a strand of _hair_ , no _fingerprints_ , no _nothing_ ,” Jack clicked his tongue, obviously aggravated. “Whoever did this knew what he was doing and did it well. No way this was his first kill.”

            “I think you hired _me_ to make that call, didn’t you, Jack?”

            “Yes, I did,” Jack nodded. “Better make a good call, Doctor Lecter.”

            Whatever Hannibal was planning on saying next was lost as he took in the crime scene.

            Splayed out like an offering to some sort of Pagan god of war or death was a woman, completely naked and clearly beginning to go through the last few hours of rigor mortis, mounted on a rack of antlers. They pierced through her chest and her legs and her stomach, small pools and rivulets of blood ringing the tips. It was like looking at a rack of ham or lamb. A slab of meat put out on display. Across her chest were incisions indicating that she had been opened up surgically. The murderer hadn’t bothered to close her back up. Whatever had been there (or what hadn’t) was nearly impossible to tell, at the moment. Carrion birds and fleas had nibbled away at the organs for hours and hours.

            “He took the lungs,” said agent Zeller, who appeared suddenly at Hannibal’s side. He glanced at his feet, at the girl, then at Hannibal before adding, “We think she was still alive when he took them.”

            Hannibal didn’t say a word, but he was already feeling the familiar wave of revulsion, as he did with all his cases. Was it possible for people to be so baseless and without morals? Apparently so. He was staring at first hand evidence right in front of him.

            “What have you got, Hannibal?” Jack murmured to him.

            “Not much,” Hannibal admitted, almost perplexed. He had never been so confounded before. “This killer had…he had some understanding for this girl. He could see himself in her. Or…he could put himself in her situation?” Hannibal felt his brow furrow.

            “He did this as a sort of…release or…perhaps a punishment,” Hannibal continued, feeling more and more confused the more he tried to explain it. “But he saw her as…as a thing. As a pig. Something to…”

            “To?” Jack prodded when Hannibal didn’t continue.

            “…To eat,” Hannibal shut his eyes for a moment, turning away from the body. To be alive when your lungs would be removed to be _consumed_. Hannibal could imagine the lungs pulsing and expanding and contracting as the chest cavity was just _peeled_ open by the murderer—with preciseness and cold confidence.

            “You’re right, Jack,” Hannibal said as Jack frowned at the body. “He’s done this before. But not exactly in this way.”

            “How can you tell?”

            “He’s too smart for it,” Hannibal said simply. “Too smart. It’s a completely different way for him. For fun, probably,” Hannibal added distastefully. “Extravagant. A statement. A show.”

            “Why would he do that?”

            “Not sure yet,” Hannibal frustratedly rubbed his thumb against his fingers. “This one is…odd. He’s odd. He’s not quite…”

            Hannibal shook his head, at a loss.

            “He’s not quite _there_.”

            “He’s a psychopath, Hannibal,” Jack said impatiently.

            “I understand that, Jack. But this one, he’s—he’s systematic, he’s intelligent, he’s shrewd. This is the first time he’s killed this way and he’s probably never going to kill this way, again. He’s not stupid enough for that, Jack.”

          “So basically what you’re telling me is that this guy is too smart, too clever, and too intelligent for you to catch?” Jack asked, his voice rising. Hannibal swallowed once and cast a gaze back at the crime scene.

            “I don’t make promises,” he replied dryly before heading back to the police cars. There was nothing left here for him to do. He just wanted to sleep. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter:   
> \- Jack is a rude douche  
> \- Look it's Alana  
> \- Hannibal don't make promises to strangers das guey

            And with a sharp slap onto the board, Hannibal was jerked awake.

            “Hannibal!” Jack shouted at him. “ _What kind of crazy is he_?”

            With a small groan, Hannibal raised his head from the desk he had been resting his head on. A few sheets of paper stuck to his cheek for a moment before he removed and replaced them. He blearily blinked at the board with the few pieces of evidence the team had garnered from their investigation of the crime scene. Some graphic pictures of the woman still skewered on the antlers, a few witness reports that really amounted to nothing, as each one was nothing like the last, some telephone records, some interviews with family and friends…

            “There have been no other reports of something similar?” Hannibal asked again. “You’re sure?”

            “I’m sure,” Jack growled. “I was sure the _first_ six times you asked me!” He withdrew his hand from the board and approached the other side of the desk to loom over Hannibal.

            “I hired to you to help me hunt down bad guys. Here’s a bad guy”—he threw an arm back towards the pictures—“so _find him_.”

            Hannibal blinked again and shook his head. “Jack, I don’t know what to tell you besides what I already have. He’s a sympathetic killer. He connects with his victims, understands them on a deep level.”

            “And that’s why he skewers them on animal horns, right?”

            “I’m just telling you what I see,” Hannibal said testily. “That’s what you _hired_ me for, isn’t it?”

            Jack gave Hannibal a hard look but didn’t say anything more, only turning to stare at the board, once more. It was like he expected the answer to appear out of thin air if he glared enough.

            “Being sympathetic kind of defeats the purpose of being a _psychopath_ , don’t you think, Hannibal?”

            “Yes,” Hannibal sighed, “it does.”

            “Just as long as you understand how _ridiculous_ this sounds,” Jack said dryly before stepping around the desk and exiting the office, brushing past Hannibal, who was resting his chin on the desk, again.

            Nothing was making _sense_ , and Hannibal knew it. He stared at the board and went everything in his mind again, over and over, but he was simply running in circles. This psychopath was unlike anything Hannibal had ever come across before. If he had such an intimate understanding of these victims, why kill them? Or did he want to make sure the pain and fear they felt upon death would be one truest to their nature? But why consume them—because, Hannibal knew, the missing lungs weren’t simply taken trophies or symbols of his conquests. They were food, like how people treated beef and ham—if he was so close to them? So they could be a part of him? So he could have some part of them with him at all times? Hannibal wasn’t sure this cannibal was sentimental enough for something like that. But could someone be as cruel and disgusting to just see other humans as slabs of meat?

            Hannibal sadly admitted that it wouldn’t be such a difficult thing to imagine. He’d seen the worst in people every day since he agreed to do this job. And, in the end, weren’t humans just another form of walking, talking meat?

            _Careful, Lecter,_ thought Hannibal with vague amusement, _or you’ll be eating people soon._

Deciding that it was time for a break, Hannibal stood up and stretched a little before walking out of the office. Outside, he was surprised to see that Jack was still standing there, and speaking to him was a familiar face dressed smartly in a patterned top and skirt.

            “Alana,” Hannibal greeted his former student with a smile. “It’s good to see you.”

            “Hannibal,” the respected psychologist returned his grin and gave him a quick embrace. “How are you?”  
            “Well, thank you,” Hannibal said, even though it was somewhat of a white lie. He didn’t think anyone with his type of job would ever fully be “well”.

            “What brings you to the Bureau?” asked Hannibal, his gaze flashing from Alana to Jack.

            “Dr. Bloom was telling me about a special consultant we might be able to take advantage of,” Jack explained. “He’s got a unique way of relating to people.”

            “An empath?” Hannibal tilted his head, glancing at Alana, again.      

            “He has a special sort of mentality that allows him to completely take the role of anyone he sees,” Alana extrapolated. “He’s been put on the autism scale as somewhere close to Asperger’s and autistics, but he can empathize with sociopaths, psychopaths…”

            “The kind of people that we’re supposed to be tracking down,” Hannibal translated. “The kind of people that _I’m_ supposed to be tracking down.”  
            “Hannibal,” Alana began, perhaps to try and assure him that it wasn’t like what he thought, but Jack cut her off.

            “You’re not exactly doing the best job, Hannibal,” Jack said bluntly. “Don’t you think it would be good to have an extra set of eyes on this case?”

            “Is he trained?”

            “Formally? No.”

            “Then he’ll be a liability in the field.”

            “We’ll judge that when we meet him.”

            “I’m not comfortable with this, Jack.”

            “It’s not really your call, Hannibal.”

            The pair of men glared at each other for a moment, at an impasse, before Alana finally stepped in and said, “Look, we’re just going to meet him, see what he’s like and see if he’s stable enough for the field.”

            “I doubt anyone that hasn’t been trained would be stable enough to see the things that we see,” Hannibal pointed out.

            “That’s for him to decide,” Jack said adamantly. Hannibal stared at Jack, who was silently daring his agent to say another word, before declaring, “I’m coming with you.”

            “That’s fine,” Jack nodded. “We were planning on taking you, anyway.”

            “When are we leaving?”

            “Now.”

            “Right now?”

            “That’s what the word ‘now’ implies.”

            “Good. Let’s get going,” said Hannibal, who began walking towards the parking lot and adjusting his jacket sleeves. Alana and Jack exchanged a glance before catching up to him.

            “Where did you find this man, Alana?” Hannibal asked as they exited the building and headed towards one of the standard issued cars.

            “He’s been popular in the psychological community,” Alana shrugged a little. “If you didn’t spend your time sleeping or solving cases, you might’ve known about him before I did.” Hannibal cracked a small smile but didn’t interrupt as Alana continued, “He’s been studied and written about in lots of papers, recently, and I heard that one doctor was trying to talk him into a documentary of sorts.”

            “Who are the ones that have written papers?”

            “Torres, Greene, Anderson, Rey,” Alana listed, sighing and casting a gaze to the sky as she tried to remember, “Chilton—”

            “Chilton interviewed this man?”

            “Yes, that Chilton.”

            “Poor guy,” Hannibal snorted a little. Alana chuckled.

            “I had an opportunity to speak to him once, actually,” Alana confided suddenly when they were in the backseat of the car. “It sounds terrible, but I was anxious to research everything about him and publish it, too. Everyone who did had a lot of attention and scrutiny in the field.”

            “There’s no shame in wanting to add to science, I suppose,” Hannibal commented.

            “This man has been harassed so much already, though,” Alana sighed. “After all this, he’d much rather be left alone. I wonder what he thinks about us all the time, too.”

            “How do you mean?”

            “Well, he has pure empathy. He sees the kind of people we are. I wonder what he thinks of us.”

            Hannibal considered this. He was sure that the subject of scientific study and attention would be tiresome and demeaning for a man, especially one that probably went anonymously and quietly throughout his life previously. Hannibal wondered how he’d been discovered in the first place. Probably by accident, like most things. It was a shame for him, but perhaps with his contribution there would be more information on people like him. That was a benefit for the man’s discomfort, surely?

            “Where does this man live, exactly?” Jack asked from the passenger seat as they left Quantico and began moving towards farmland.

            “Wolf Trap,” Alana answered.

            “Kind of isolated, isn’t it?” Jack observed.

            “I should think so, for a guy that’s probably being called by every psychologist in the country and then some,” Alana said dryly.

            The rest of the drive was silent until they finally pulled up at a normal enough home. The wood was painted white and the front porch was clear and it had two sizeable stories. The windows were rather wide to let in light, but they were drawn over with curtains at the moment. Hannibal supposed he couldn’t blame the man. The house itself, Hannibal observed, seemed rather large and spacious for one person to live in by himself. As they ascended the porch steps, however, they heard barks from at least three or four dogs inside. So he wasn’t _completely_ alone, then.

            “Does this man have a name?” Hannibal asked suddenly, surprised that it hadn’t occurred to him to ask beforehand. Alana rang the doorbell (which only made the barks more crazed) while she answered, “Will Graham.”

            There wasn’t an answer immediately, so Jack opened the screen door and rapped the main door with his knuckles a few times. When there was still no answer, Jack knocked, again.

            “Give him a moment,” Hannibal said quietly when Jack went to knock a third time. The special agent glanced at Hannibal before taking a step back.

            Finally, however, Hannibal also tried to get the resident’s attention.

            “Mr. Graham?” Hannibal tried to look through the space between the curtains in the windows. “Mr. Graham, are you home?”

            “Go away!” a muffled voice sounded at last from the house. The dogs’ barked ceased, as well. The trio outside exchanged hesitant looks.

            “Mr. Graham, we have a few questions for you,” Jack called. “Please come out of the house.”

            “I don’t want to answer any more of your stupid _questions_ ,” Will Graham answered petulantly.

            “Mr. Graham, I am an FBI special agent and head of Behavioral Sciences, and you will open this door and answer my questions or so help you God, I will be breaking it down.”  
            “Do you have a _warrant_?” Graham asked testily. Hannibal had to consciously stop himself from snorting at Jack’s expression. Alana allowed herself a wry smile before settling into an indifferent expression.

            “…No,” Jack conceded.

            “Then you won’t be breaking anything today, sir.” Jack pressed his lips together and turned to the other two. _Now what?_

            “Will?” Alana tried next. “It’s Dr. Bloom. We met when Dr. Chilton interviewed you.”

            “I remember,” said Graham, “and if you think that’s going to make me open the door for you, you’re very bad at your job.”

            Hannibal smiled a little, again. This man’s cynicism and wit was very entertaining. When he looked at the other two, however, they nodded towards the door. _Your turn_.

            “Mr. Graham?” began Hannibal. “My name is Hannibal Lecter. I’m an investigator with the FBI. We need your help to solve a case we’ve come across.”  
            “I’m not interested in being used like a drug-sniffing dog.”

            “That’s not our intention at all,” Hannibal assured Graham. “But this case is too unusual. The murderer is…unusual. We can’t put a pin on him.”

            “And you want me to put a face to him.”

            “Well, yes,” Hannibal admitted. “There are people in danger. This is a serial killer, and a skilled one. A young woman died and her lungs were taken from her chest.”

            “A woman?” Graham repeated. Hannibal blinked.

            “Yes, that’s right.”

            “And her lungs were missing?”

            “Yes.”

            Silence. Hannibal wondered if he should’ve left out those details. Perhaps they were too gory to convince someone to come with them into the field.

            “I’ll personally guarantee that you won’t be feeling anything like a dog,” Hannibal added on afterthought.

            There was still no answer. Hannibal turned to Alana and Jack, who shrugged. After another minute or two, Jack sighed and said, “Okay, I guess—”

            The door was thrown open suddenly, revealing a dark, curly haired man a few inches shorter than Hannibal, with a sharp jawline but with narrower shoulders. He was pulling on a jacket while pushing on the last half of his pair of shoes. He shook himself out a little before pushing his glasses further up his nose and considering the trio standing on his porch. His grey-green eyes looked haggard but alert. He glanced between Jack, Alana, and Hannibal (although he didn’t directly meet their eyes, only looked at their chins, perhaps) before asking, “Which one of you is Hannibal Lecter?”

            “That would be me,” Hannibal replied, stepping forward and offering a hand. Graham stared at it with an unreadable expression. He seemed to be taking in everything on it. The scratches, the marks, the wrinkles, everything seemed to give this man a separate story. Finally, Graham took it with a somewhat loose and vaguely weak handshake.

            “I hope you keep your promise,” Graham said, meeting Hannibal’s eyes for a moment before glancing back down at his shoes, again.

            “I will.”

            “Mr. Graham,” Jack extended his own hand, now, which Graham took automatically and without inspection. “I’m special agent Jack Crawford.”

            “Yes, I heard you bellowing through the door,” Graham observed. “And call me Will. Mr. Graham is my father’s name. Am I going to the crime scene?”

            “No,” Jack said as he led Will down the steps and towards the car, “we already inspected the crime scene and cleared everything. We have the evidence down at the bureau, though.”

            As Will approached the car, Alana went to the opposite side and greeted him over the top of the vehicle. “Hello, Will.”

            Will blinked once and avoided Alana Bloom’s gaze. “Dr. Bloom.”

            In the end, Hannibal was forced to be sandwiched between Alana and Will during the ride back to the bureau. He never thought he’d been in a more awkward position in his life.

            Eventually, when they returned to the bureau, Will didn’t speak up much, only took in everything as he strode through the halls. It was like he was memorizing every single detail of the place, every crack, every flickering light. He steps were measured and confident but his eyes never stopped moving. It was slightly unnerving.

            But it was even more unnerving when Will was finally shown the evidence board. The way he took in the information before closing his eyes was fascinating. Hannibal could understand why all the psychologists wanted to study this man. Hannibal could see Will’s eyes moving underneath his eyelids. He seemed totally engrossed, his focus totally internal. He could envision Will reconstructing the entire crime. Will was in his own world.

            “The killer you’re looking for is sympathetic towards his victims,” Will finally said, speaking over his shoulder to the other three observing. “He wants them to be a part of him. So he does this by consuming them.”

            “‘Them’?” Jack repeated. Will blinked and said, “I thought there’d be more than one. This kind of killing, it’s—it’s definitely not a first timer. This person was precise. He knew what he was doing. He had everything planned to the T.”

            Hannibal felt a small cheer that he had said more or less these things. At least now he had some back up, even if Will had few credentials. It was obvious that he knew what he was talking about. Still, one look at Jack told Hannibal that he was not wholly convinced.

            “A sympathetic psycho killer?”

            “That’s right.” Will looked towards Hannibal. “You said so much yourself, didn’t you?”

            “Yes, I did,” Hannibal nodded. “Jack thought that you might have a more sensible explanation.”

            Will blinked and turned towards Jack again. “Unless there’s another murder like this, though, we’re not going to get much out of it. He’ll probably never kill this way again.”

            Suddenly, Beverly burst into the room, her hair somewhat askew. She spared Will a short look over before saying, “They found another body—killed like the first one.”

            “Where?” Jack demanded.

            “Minnesota, again. Team’s already moving.”

            Jack shot Will an accusatory glare before beginning to move. Hannibal followed him.

            “I’ve been wrong before,” Will muttered and shrugged as he trailed after and fell in step with Hannibal. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this super short chapter do not hate me:  
> \- look bromance (?????)  
> \- you wouldn't like me when I'm angry

            Will Graham studied the body lying in the bed—peacefully, almost, its face tranquil. Its eyes were closed and its arms were placed comfortably at its sides. It might’ve been sleeping, if not for the rather messy cut around its abdomen and the bruises on its chest. There were clear strangulation marks on its throat. But the white night dress was a nice touch…Will supposed. Even with the puncture wounds. Antlers, probably. Agent Katz only confirmed this off to the side of the room.

            In the background, he heard agent Lecter and agent Crawford hypothesize about this new victim, why she was put back versus the other one that was so brazenly put on display in a cornfield in Minnesota.

With a small flash of irritation at their apparent misunderstanding of the situation, Will half turned before agent Lecter said frankly, “This isn’t the same murderer.”

            With a blink, Will turned back to the body. Neither agent seemed to notice. He kept an ear on their conversation as he continued to drink in the scene before him—although he really didn’t need to see any more. He had all the information he needed.

            “This murderer was—is—sympathetic. He put her back where he found her. He dressed her. He tucked her into bed.”

            “What, so the same exact crime scene we saw a few days ago just happened to be recreated?”

            “No, this wasn’t a recreation,” said agent Lecter adamantly. “It’s a copy—but a less…sadistic one. This was more respectful. More honorable.”

            Agent Crawford was silent for a moment.

            “Just get this body back to the precinct. Mr. Graham,” Crawford added suddenly, causing Will to start a little before turning to meet his gaze—and promptly looking away.

            “Do you have any opinions?”

            Will’s look flickered over towards Hannibal for a moment, but his expression was unreadable. He looked back at Crawford and cleared his throat before assenting, “I agree with inspector Lecter. This killing is completely different from the first. Look at the strangulation wounds. In his eyes, he was carrying out this murder mercifully and kindly. From what I’ve seen from the previous murder, it doesn’t seem like your first killer would do something so sentimental.”

            Crawford pressed his lips together for a moment but didn’t say anymore. As he turned his back, however, Will spotted Hannibal give the slightest of smiles before going back to his politely indifferent expression.

            “So, inspector Lecter,” Will struck up a conversation as they entered one of the police cars. Lecter took the driver’s seat and Will took it upon himself to join him in the passenger’s seat. Lecter did not seem particularly ecstatic about this.

            “Have you been with the FBI long?”

            “I’ve helped to consult many times in the past,” Lecter replied easily enough. “I’m not what you would consider a ‘formal’ agent with the FBI.”

            “Were you ever?”

            “No.”

            “What did you do beforehand?”

            “Psychology, mostly,” Lecter answered after a moment. “Tried out surgery for a while before going into the abstract side of neural medicines.”

            “So you’re a doctor?”

            “Yes, technically. I don’t practice.”

            “You have a doctorate in psychology, as well?”

            “That’s right.”

            “Why doesn’t anyone call you ‘doctor’?”

            “Jack does,” said Lecter. “When he’s upset with me. Or being sarcastic.”

            There was a pause in the conversation while Will considered this. Hannibal followed the other cars back to the agency in the meanwhile. He wasn’t sure how he felt about Will asking him questions about his background. To what end did this subject of scientific publications hope to achieve by interviewing him?

            “I think it’s only fair to give a doctor the title he deserves,” Will finally commented. He turned to Hannibal, then, and asked, “Would you mind if I called you ‘doctor’?”

            Hannibal spared Will a quick glance before focusing back on the road. “Not at all.” He didn’t see a reason why not.

            “Well then, Dr. Lecter,” Will said, “it’s very nice to meet your acquaintance.”

            When they returned to the agency, Hannibal and Will immediately made their way down to forensics, where Beverly was already working on the nightgown the victim was wearing (what was her name again? Will couldn’t recall) and Bryan and Zellar were inspecting the body.

            “Tried her skin for prints,” sighed Bryan. “Of course, nothing. We  could try to get a handprint off her neck, maybe.”

            “Did reports say anything about nails?” asked Lecter while Will stepped into the background, observing the good doctor doing his work. It was interesting and educational to know how the FBI went about their business—beyond kicking in doors and announcing themselves in homes.

            “Fingernails were smudged when we took the scrapings. Scrapings were on her own palms when she scratched herself. She never scratched him,” Zeller shrugged. The considered the body for a moment, nonplussed.

            “I got you,” Katz said triumphantly from the back of the room. The other four men looked up from the corpse as the woman approached, holding a brown-red fragment of something in a pair of tweezers.

            “Piece of metal,” Katz announced, placing it on a tray and shoving it towards the others so they could marvel at it. “And it looks like that’s all we’ve got.”

            “So we should start looking at steel and metal workers. Pipe workers,” Hannibal suggested as he leaned forward to look at the new piece of evidence. In the meanwhile, Will took a few steps forward and looked over the puncture wounds. He looked over them, his face very still.

            “What is it?” Hannibal asked, noticing Will’s expression, while the others discussed the other injuries. Will inclined his head a little before saying, “She was mounted. On—on antlers. Like hooks. She was pierced on antlers and mounted. On a wall. She may have been bled.”  
            “And he took out her liver,” Zeller added, opening up her stomach area, and continued, “ _aa-aa-and_ he put it back in.”

            “Why take out a liver only to put it back in?”

            “Something wrong with the meat,” murmured Hannibal, his face stony. The other three forensic scientists started and straightened to stare. When Hannibal did not provide any more explanation, Will clarified, “He’s eating them.”

            He was beginning to feel _very_ annoyed. 


End file.
